Beaver Creek, USA
Thomas
I open my bag in the new hotel room. Lukas is already sprawled on the other bed, scrolling through his phone, half-grinning at something his daughter texted. He doesn't mention it, but I catch the flicker of relief in his eyes. It's always there after a safe day on the hill.
The room's old-school but fancy. Organizers always put top athletes in the best spots. A little flex.
He switches on the TV. He knows I don't care. We've roomed together for two seasons now. We don't get in each other's way.
He mutters, "Matteo looked loose on the flats. You'll want that line tomorrow." His advice always lands dry, never dramatic, but it sticks.
I'm wrecked. The race is one thing, the beer another, but the eight-hour travel finished me. I take out my toothbrush and collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
I replay that conversation with Katharina.
For one, I almost kissed her. And I don't regret that. For a moment, it felt like it could be simple between us.
I get why she holds back. I even enjoy it. There's something irresistible about a woman who sheds her armor, one piece at a time. But yeah—it's annoying too.
Still, it stung. Hearing her talk to Brenner like I'm a brand to be optimized. I know the game. I am the product. But hearing it from her?
That's different.
And those questions she asked—meant to make me think? She's good at that. I knew it from the first dinner. But do I want that kind of introspection in my life? Hell, no.
In part, I tried to kiss her just to avoid giving answers.
Always after stories, always digging. But when she melts in my arms, that sharp mind of hers goes quiet.
Still, maybe she's right. Perhaps it's time I throw the press a bone.
And if I do it, I want it to be with her.
What is there to write about, though?
As far as I know, she's my only weakness.
I'm happy. Skiing. Winning. Racing. Smiling.
My team—I always thank them. My family, the federation, even assholes like Brenner get their credit in quotes and posts.
What more am I supposed to say?
Maybe… I'll let her decide.
Yeah. That's it. I'll let her ask the questions.
I'll let her strip my soul.
And maybe, just maybe, we'll get close enough in the process that she lets me strip her body.
Damn.
That's the kind of thought that'll keep me awake.
Guess I deserve that.
At breakfast, I spot her at the coffee machine again.
Hair up this time. No lipstick. Still beautiful, but different, less curated. Like someone who didn't sleep much but refused to show it.
I hesitate a second longer than usual before walking over.
"Morning," I say, quieter than usual. No smirk, no swagger. Just… me.
She turns. Eyes meet mine for a moment too long. Then she hands me a cup without a word.
"There's no sugar," she says eventually. "Figured I'd let you decide what you want."
There's a message in that. About control. About space.
"Thanks," I say, accepting it. "Appreciate the freedom."
She doesn't smile, but her mouth twitches like she might. Then she shifts her weight and glances toward the tables. Doesn't walk away, though.
"I thought about what you said," I offer, not looking at her directly. "About the media stuff."
She finally meets my eyes again.
“And?”
"I'll give you something," I say. "No scripts. No polish. Just me. You decide if it's worth writing."
Something flickers across her face. Surprise? Gratitude? Guilt? All three, maybe.
"You sure?" she asks, voice low. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not proving. I'm trusting."
I lean in just enough to lower my voice. "One sit-down. Off-script."
She holds my gaze. "On the record—after you approve the angle."
“Deal.”
Her breath catches. This time, I see it clearly.
I reach for the cup she's holding just a second too long. Brush her fingers on purpose.
She doesn't pull away.
That tingle as our fingers meet. I almost close my eyes to enjoy it.
"Thanks for thinking about my morning dose of caffeine," I say, pulling away slowly.
"It was for me," she replies. "But I figured I owed you an apology. For crossing a line yesterday. It was… impulsive."
"You can be an impulsive woman sometimes."
"You have no idea."
"Actually," I lean in, just enough for her to feel my breath, "I do."
And with that, I turn and walk to my table.
I can feel the stares. I feel a little guilty, leaving her to deal with them.
But then I hear the espresso machine kick in and know.
She'll handle it.
I leave with her coffee in my hand and her consent in my pocket.